


Holding One's Breath

by walking_tornado



Series: WC Missing Scenes [5]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode: s01e08 Hard Sell, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7475760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_tornado/pseuds/walking_tornado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozzie wants Neal to run instead of going after Avery's ledger. (Missing scene for 1.08, Hard Sell)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding One's Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [wc_rewatch](http://wc-rewatch.livejournal.com). Since I might not be able to do one for next week's episode, I thought I'd do two for this week.

Neal: _Just so I'm clear: if anything goes wrong, I suffocate._  
Peter: _Then we'll make sure nothing goes wrong._  
Neal: _Or I can practice holding my breath._

***

Neal combed his fingers through his damp hair as he stepped through June's front door. Swimming usually relaxed him, allowing him to zone out in the repetitive motion, but not today. Today it had left him on edge. _If anything goes wrong, I suffocate_. His words had repeated themselves in a loop while he swam, until he began working to maintain the same pace while halving the number of breaths he took.

 _I suffocate_. _I suffocate_.

It didn't make for a relaxing workout, and he was panting by the end for all his effort. Still, he held his breath once again as he stepped into June's house and began walking up the stairs to his room. Control, it was all about control and practice. With any job, he planned and ran through contingencies and last ditch measures. The FBI jobs were no different. Though he'd meant it more as a joke initially, it was always better to practice and not need it than not to practice and risk panicking should something happen.

June's voice was a low murmur as she spoke with the cook in the kitchen, and Neal heard the scamper of Bugsy's feet as the little dog tried his best to position himself closest to where food might fall. Cindy walked out of the kitchen munching on an apple and she waved a quick hello before disappearing into her room. Her normally impeccable attire had been replaced with a paint-smeared t-shirt and old jeans, and he wondered what project she was working on now. He loved watching her find her own style—something he had never tried to do.

Neal's lungs ached by the time he reached the top of the stairs, and his fingers fumbled the lock picks. He could have used his key, but he wouldn't have that luxury during the operation tonight. Neal gave in and gulped a breath. He took some of his frustration out on the door, and it banged open, surprising Mozzie mid-pour. Dark Merlot splashed on June's hardwood floor.

"Oh!" Mozzie exclaimed and he carefully set his glass and the opened bottle on the table before scurrying to grab the washcloth from beside the sink.

"Hey Moz," Neal said.

"Bad day?" Mozzie looked up from his crouch. "You look flushed."

"Long day," Neal corrected him. He walked to the bathroom to hang up his wet swim trunks. "And I was holding my breath."

"Ah." Mozzie nodded as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing for Neal to do. "Well," he said after a moment, speaking louder over the sound of the faucet as he rinsed out his cloth, "I was going to close out a couple more accounts tomorrow, but we have enough right now if you want to leave tonight."

"Thanks," Neal said, and he meant it. Very few people in his situation had someone like Mozzie who could be counted on. "But I'm not sure I'm running after all."

"What? After the Suit—"

"It wasn't Peter with Kate in the picture."

"Ookay. I thought you said it was. With a shower of chess pieces."

"I did. But I confronted Peter about it and he explained. Apparently a lot of FBI agents have those rings."

Mozzie barked an incredulous laugh. "Fine, there are a lot of people with rings. But that doesn't mean it's not him. You're talking as if the Suit's in the clear. You asked him; he denied it. Ever think he might be—oh, I don't know— _lying_."

"It's not him."

"Why, because he said so?"

Neal shook his head. "I know Peter. This is not—"

Mozzie walked to the chess board that had been set up once more in the center of the table, and he held up the bishop. "The bishop comes at a problem from the side, seeing the angles—"

Neal held up his hand. "You're the bishop, I'm the pawn: I get it. Moz, we did that analogy. Let's move on."

"Hear me out. Because the Suit—you seem to think he's the rook, a straight-shooter, sometimes stepping in to protect the king—but he's not. He's playing the angles: a bishop, like me—but evil. Or maybe he's worse."

Neal sighed, but stepped forward to listen.

"The guy you're after—the one running all this—he's not the king, Neal, he's the player. You have something he wants and he's setting you up. You're not the pawn—or the knight," he said as Neal's fingers absently traced the horse's head. Mozzie picked up the king and set it in the middle of the board. "You're the king." Mozzie toppled the king onto its side and fixed him with an earnest, unblinking stare. "And you need to take yourself off the board."

"How?" Neal asked, even though he knew the answer.

"We leave tonight."

"I can't."

"Because . . ."

"I have to get Avery's ledger from the vault during the party tonight.

"You _have_ to." Mozzie let his words sit there for a moment. "I think you're missing the point of leaving."

"People are losing their life savings to this guy."

Mozzie's "so what?" expression was perfectly clear. "Then maybe they should stop giving these people their money," he said, and then he held up his hands to forestall Neal's objection. "Fine, fine. What type of vault?"

"It has a fire suppression system. Oxygen reduction," Neal said.

"Explains the breath holding," Mozzie said. He tilted his head to the side as he considered it. "Not the best strategy."

Neal shrugged in acknowledgement. "I'll have FBI backup," he said, ignoring Mozzie's disgusted " _More_ suits!" to continue, "and an emergency breather. Five minutes. But I should be able to bypass it without setting it off."

Mozzie leaned forward. "So, other than the ledger, what does Avery have to warrant a system like that?"

"Comics."

"Huh?"

Neal grimaced. "He installed it to protect his comic book collection."

"Ahh," Mozzie nodded, then took in Neal's look of derision. "What? Sure, they're not Rembrandt, and it's a niche market, but it couldn't hurt to snag a couple on your way out . . . Is he a Marvel man?"

Neal shook his head. "I'm only going for the ledger. Peter would know."

Mozzie rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"I trust him," Neal said.

Mozzie sighed. "I know. That's the problem." He regarded Neal in silence for a couple beats then, walked over to unroll a blank sheet of paper on the table, taking a sip of his wine before placing the glass to hold down one corner of the curling paper. "Okay," he said, "let's go over details." 


End file.
